


Wind Chill

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Cold Weather, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton hates the cold. It seems he has been cold all his life. Phil thinks it's time to warm him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wind Chill

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired (?) by last weeks Polar Vortex when it was -13F, with a wind chill of -40F. I'm thinking this isn't something Clint would enjoy. 
> 
> Warnings: Homeless teens, suggestion of non-con and prostitution. Non-graphic and happening in Clint's past. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters, I own only my words.

"Coulson, isn't there some kind of law against keeping agents on point when it's below zero? I'm freezing my ass off."

"You have thermals, Under Armor, heat packs … "

"I'm still freezing. I fucking HATE the cold. It makes my joints hurt." He isn't whining. It's the truth. All the heat packs and thermals in the world can't keep his body from reacting to the cold. It's been that way since the winter he left the circus. Left, was abandoned, the choice of words didn't matter. "Coulson, set a timeframe here, please."

"One hour, Barton. If the contact doesn't show, you can come in."

"If he has one-tenth the mastermind he's supposed to be, he'll be smart enough to sit in front of a fireplace with a hot toddy and wooly socks."

"He may be counting on _you_ to be doing that."

"I wish." Clint subsides into silence. Talking distracts him and takes up too much energy. He listens to Coulson's breath in his ear. It's intimate, warming his heart, if not his body. He can do an hour. "I want hot chocolate and a purple snuggie when I come in. Seriously."

"You're ridiculous," Coulson sighs, as Clint goes silent. He wonders about the reasons behind keeping Clint out in the elements. Experience has taught him that the sharpshooter hates the cold. He's never let it affect his missions, but after, when the adrenaline has worn off, he shakes with it. "Stay with it for another hour, Barton, if he doesn't show, I'll call the op." He's repeating himself, but he wants Barton to know that he's got his back. 

An hour later, the contact is fast asleep in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility courtesy of a tranquilizer shot with unerring accuracy by Hawkeye, and Clint is dripping and shivering in front of Coulson's temporary office as Coulson makes his report to Director Fury. The temporary facility is in a barely heated Quonset hut. Not a mug of hot chocolate or purple snuggie in sight. He can't blame Coulson. The acquisition of High value targets is the diamond in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s crown. Maybe Fury will be happy. Which means Coulson will have that crinkle at the corner of his eyes that Clint wants to kiss. 

Coulson finally closes his Skype call and looks up. The crinkles around his eyes fade into concern. "Barton, why are you still here?"

"Waiting for you."

"Your lips are blue." 

"Yes, sir." Clint tries, and fails, to suppress the shiver that rolls through his body. 

"Let's get out of here." Coulson grabs a coat from the wall. Instead of putting it on, he sets it over Clint's shoulders. When he sees Clint's eyes widen, he says, "No pneumonia on my watch. It got old after Budapest."

Clint isn't going to argue. He pushes away from the wall. He keeps his teeth from chattering with an effort. "So, was the director happy?"

"He was pleased. I'm not sure happy applies to Director Fury. He sends his compliments on the shot."

"I was hoping for hot chocolate."

"You need more than that, Barton. Follow me."

"Happy to, sir."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Coulson takes Clint to the safe house where they're staying. Like most safe houses, it's anonymous, practical, plain. However, the heat works and there is plenty of hot water to shower with. Coulson muscles Clint into the bathroom, turns the taps to hot and shoves a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. sweats into his arms. "For god's sake, Barton, get in the tub and warm yourself up. I can feel how cold you are through your clothes. It's appalling."

"I'll be fine," Clint grumbles, but he loves that Phil is taking care of him. So few people have in his past that to be fussed over and pampered is a revelation. Coulson's hands are warm. His eyes are kind. Clint could let him take care of him forever … like that would ever happen.

Clint's fingers have thawed enough to allow him to get out of his clothes. He prefers showers, but immersing himself in hot water makes him groan with pleasure. He scrubs up, more to get his circulation going that to clean himself, and then submerses himself in the water to his chin. He's on the verge of falling asleep when Coulson knocks. 

"Barton, are you alive in there?"

"Alive. Just thawing out."

"Don't fall asleep. The water will just get cold. Then we'll be back to square one."

"I'm not there yet."

"I have hot chocolate."

"You win. I'll be out in a minute." Clint reluctantly gets out of the tub and wraps himself in towels. He doesn't want to leave the still steamy bathroom, but he needs food and definitely wants that hot chocolate, even if it's out of a package with reconstituted marshmallow pellets. He pulls on the S.H.I.E.L.D. sweats. They're about two sizes too big, so they don't belong to Phil. They probably came from one of the big special forces operatives that Natasha beats up on a regular basis in sparring sessions.

His hair is still sticking up in damp spikes when he comes out into the living area. Phil thinks he looks adorable, pale, but adorable. It's the bane of his existence to find his sniper so irresistible. He holds up a mug. "Hot chocolate, as requested."

Phil is lounging against the counter. His concession to informality is a loose tie and an open collar. Clint has a tantalizing glimpse of dark hair and pale skin. He knows Coulson's scent; the soap he uses, the occasional faint spice of after shave. Instead, he focuses on the mug Coulson offers him. It may not be premium, but it's hot and sugary and there is a tang of … bourbon? Whatever it is, it warms him down to his stomach. He sips it, savoring every swallow.

"It's good," he tells Coulson. "Thanks."

"Feeling warmer?"

Clint shrugs. "Mostly. Is there more?"

Coulson raises a brow. "There's soup if you want me to heat it in the microwave."

"I could do that myself."

"I've got it. Go stand by the heater."

Clint yields. He gives a slight nod and wanders over to the radiator. Heat wafts from the old fashioned cast iron ribs. It feels heavenly. 

Phil sets a bowl of chicken soup on the coffee table. "It's from a can. Sorry. They didn't seem to stock this safe house with anything more gourmet."

"As long as it's hot, I'm not complainin'." Clint devours the hot soup. It tastes like they waved the chicken over a pot of water, threw in a few vegetables and noodles, then salted it liberally. He's had worse. He finishes it and pushes the bowl away. "More cocoa, but without the chocolate and marshmallows."

Coulson smiles. "My gran used to make a hot toddy with whiskey, sugar and hot water." He's relieved to see that the pale, pinched look has faded from Clint's features. 

"Perfect," Clint sighs as he sinks down on the couch and covers himself with a pilled afghan. He rests his head on the back of the cushions. 

Phil hands him the mug. "You really don't like the cold, do you?"

"It's not a matter of like, Coulson. It's my body."

"Tell me." It's not quite an order, it's too soft with concern, but Phil waits for the truth. 

Clint has had just enough bourbon to put him into a slightly fuzzy, comfortable state of relaxation. He trusts Coulson with his life. He should trust him with his past. "My dad was a mean drunk. He beat us … me, my mother, Barney. Broke my arm once, I don't know how many bruises he left. So, when he was drunk and mean, I used to hide in the barn. Great in the summer with the scent of hay and the sun filtering down through the dust, but in the winter … man, was it _cold_. Sometimes I didn't have time to grab a coat, so I'd burrow into the hay and hope it would keep me warm. Maybe it did, but not that much, you know … " He shrugs. "The orphanage was warm, at least. When Barney and I took off with the circus, it wasn't too bad since we traveled southern circuit for the winter. People don't think it gets cold in Georgia, but there were times when I'd wake up to a hard frost and thought my bones would break in two."

As he listens to Barton, Phil leans forward in the rickety desk chair. S.H.I.E.L.D. has access to a lot of data, but not to emotions, to memories. Data has never told the whole story to Phil. Clint's file is filled with facts, figures, records going back to his school days at the orphanage, the years at the circus and his shady past. Phil was prepared to treat him as just another criminal with skills S.H.I.E.L.D. was interested in employing. It had only taken one look into Clint's changeable eyes to see the fear, doubt and pain beneath the acid humor and defiant attitude. He knew that this was a man he could mold into an extraordinary asset. What he hadn't known, and was slowly learning was how emotionally and physically damaged Clint's past had left him. He rarely failed on a mission, but after returning home, he would retreat to his quarters or the range to sort things through. His solitude had a darkness to it that told Phil more than any statistical report ever could.

"How old were you?" He feels like he's taking advantage of Clint's vulnerability, but he truly wants to know more about this young man who is a mystery in so many ways.

"Seventeen. We had played the northern circuit and were heading south in a week when I found out about Trickshot stealing from old man Carson and Barney was helping him. God, I was monumentally stupid, Coulson."

"Not stupid, just young."

"Yeah, well young didn't land me in the hospital with two broken legs, a broken collarbone, cracked ribs and a fucking skull fracture."

"You were lucky to survive," Coulson says, feeling foolish because he's certain that Barton doesn't feel that way at all. 

"Yeah, lucky, that's me, all right. When I got out of the hospital, there I was … no money and no place to go in the middle of winter. You know what happens to seventeen year olds with no protection, Coulson? There's wolves out there in the winter, hungry and looking for prey. I was that prey. I slept in alleys, went to shelters when it was really cold. Sometimes, I'd take up with a guy just because he had a place with heat. I survived that winter and swore that was it. I could do things nobody else could — see things nobody else could see, I became one of those wolves and ran with the pack the next winter. But I never preyed on the innocent, I never hurt a kid or a woman or somebody weaker than I was." He fell silent for so long that Coulson thought he had drifted off. He was about to cover him with the blanket from the bed when he spoke again. "I figure you know the rest of the story. So when I get cold, it all comes back to me, and I hurt. That's all. I just hurt."

"I know." Coulson rethinks things. "You should go to bed. The mattress is better than the couch and it's warmer. I'll take the couch."

"Geez, Coulson, you don't like the cold any more than I do, and you can't tell me you don't hurt. I've seen the scars." He looks at Phil with those eyes, drowsy and heavy-lidded. "You can sleep in the bed. I promise I'll still respect you in the morning."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Barton, you're ridiculous," he says, and if it sounds more fond than exasperated, he can't help it. "Go to sleep." When he comes out, wearing his old sweats, Clint is already asleep, curled up tightly on one side of the bed. 

Phil gets carefully into bed, not wanting to wake Barton from a hard-earned sleep. It's not the first time they've shared a bed, but it's the first time in a safe house where there are other options. It feels both odd, and oddly right. He listens to Clint breathing, soft and even. He brushes a hand against Clint's back. He's still not warm, but at least he's no longer shivering. 

They pack up the next morning and drive the rental car to the nearest airport. S.H.I.E.L.D. sends a chopper to pick them up and that night, they are back at headquarters. After debriefing, Clint goes to the armory to store his gear. He's looking forward to a hot shower, flannel sleep pants and the down comforter Coulson had ordered for him after realizing that Clint was vulnerable to the cold. It had a purple duvet cover, which made Clint wonder if he was missing something. 

He stops by Phil's office and hears the click of computer keys and Coulson talking on the phone to Melinda May, a Level 7 agent with a fearsome reputation and the whispered nickname of "The Cavalry," which she reportedly hates. Clint avoids her as much as possible even though she has never been anything but abruptly courteous to him. 

He makes a soundless exit and goes to his quarters where he soaks in a steaming shower and curls up to watch a DVRd episode of _Dog Cops_. He's dozing off when there is a knock on his door. Clint doesn't have friends who come calling this late, except Coulson and occasionally Jasper Sitwell, who shares Clint's obsession with cinnamon scones and Food TV. Jasper always texts. So … Coulson.

Clint unwinds himself from the comforter and opens the door. "Coulson?"

Phil holds out two cups of steaming tea. "I thought you might like something hot." Then blushes when Clint's eyes widen. "Umm … tea?"

Clint takes a breath. "Yeah, tea. C'mon in."

The only seating options are the couch and the desk chair, which is, frankly, uninviting. Coulson looks askance at the chair and then settles on the couch. He looks tired, and his tie is loosened. Clint wants to kiss the shadows beneath his eyes. Instead, he sips his tea and settles back to watch the show. Coulson's silence isn't awkward, it's calming, and as they relax, their shoulders rest against each others. Clint sighs and turns his head. Coulson is watching him, his eyes both puzzled and questioning.    


"What?" Clint asks. He has a hard time speaking.

"I think I'm going to kiss you," Coulson says. "Which is completely wrong, and I will understand if you throw me out on my ass."

"I can live with that … I mean the kissing part." Coulson's eyes crinkle in that perfect way and Clint finally has the right to touch them gently as Coulson tilts his head and they kiss. 

Clint melts into the kiss, the warmth and heat as Phil's body slowly presses him back against the sofa cushions. When they part, breathless and awed, Clint whispers, "I'm not cold anymore." 

"I won't let you be cold ever again," Phil promises, and although Clint knows that's impossible, it's true for tonight. 

**The End**


End file.
